


I Build Bridges With These Arms (I Will Not Build a Fortress)

by crunchyflakes



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8106913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crunchyflakes/pseuds/crunchyflakes
Summary: "Listen here, I am a respectable witch, and I will not be dragged into necromancy!"In which Eric Bittle, a respectable witch, is dragged into quite a bit of necromancy.





	1. Just Peachy Protection Pie

**Author's Note:**

> i write stories seasonally, so i guess this is going to be my late summer/autumn/winter story ??  
> anyway, i've been really into witchcraft for a while now, and this is my way of really exploring it (also look me in the eyes and tell me that bitty isn't witch material)  
> the title is from Squalloscope's "Big Houses"  
> enjoy!

"Zimms? Jack? _Jack_?!" Kent shouted at the body -- his friend -- in his arms. The brightness of Jack's blue eyes began to fade, the pink in his face quickly following. It was as if all of the color and vibrancy that had been in him only moments before was rushing to the dark blood bubbling out of the sides of his open mouth.

"We're going to fix this, OK?" Kent said, panic finding a home in his voice. He reached a shaking hand to the slit across Jack's throat, futilely attempting to stop the blood there from flowing. "It's going to be OK."

Kent wasn't sure who's benefit the lie was for. He didn't believe it, and Jack was bleeding out in his arms -- he couldn't have if he wanted to.

Jack's eyes glossed over, and the minute expressions he'd managed stopped for good.

" _Shit_!" Kent hissed through gritted teeth. He could feel the sob wrack his body before he heard it. He flung himself onto Jack's chest and wept. 

. . .

Dawn was just breaking over Madison, Georgia, and it was already miserably hot.

Granted, the heat wasn't as bad as it had been a month ago. August had been an absolute nightmare -- an inferno stretched across the expanse of the state. Even at a full blast, the ancient air conditioner had been no help, and the standing fans were more of a nuisance than a relief.

Eric Bittle was in the back of his bakery -- napping on the flour coated counter and gently snoring until the kitchen timer woke him up. He pulled himself up (sticky from sweat or residual peach filling, he couldn't tell...) and made his way to the ovens. He opened one, receiving a blast of blazing, cinnamon scented air.

"Lord, almighty!" he exclaimed to himself, wrapping an oven mitt around either side of the pie tin and placing it on the counter behind him. The salamanders that had crawled out of the oven began moving towards the windows, trying to find the hottest spots to sleep.

"Y'all act as if this oven door isn't opening again. Just give me a minute!" he looked at one clinging to the warmth of the pie tin. "Shoo!"

This was part of the morning routine: Wake up hours before the sun and get the day's pies baking before the sun could even make it over the city's skyline. Remind the salamanders they weren't dying. Open up for business. Start Chowder making the sweet tea and coffee--

\--where _was_ Chowder? 

"Christopher Chow!" Eric yelled, rolling out the raw top crust. "If you're here -- and _you'd best be here_ \-- get into this kitchen!"

A minute brought no response, and Eric looked dolefully down at the uncovered peach pie cooling on the counter. "I'm sorry, honey, I just can't put you back in there until I fix your spell up, and I can't do that until Chowder gets back with my candles."

The locks on the front door began to click as they unlocked, and Eric felt a distinctive, soft pull at the back of his mind as his wards (however sloppy) were undone. He reached instinctively towards his rolling pin.

"Eric?" Chowder called from the front of the shop. "Eric! I'm back! It smells great in here!"

"Young man," Eric said, appearing in the doorway that led from the kitchen to the dining room. "Where were you?"

Chowder held up the brown paper bag he was holding. "You told me to run to Johnson's! You needed more candles, right?" He handed the bag to Eric, who inspected it closely.

"I also needed some more hazel twigs for the storm coming up..."

"Yeah, apparently every witch in the county is looking for hazel twigs this time of year." Chowder said as he opened the door again, lifting boxes of eggs and other produce into the shop from the front porch.

Eric raised an eyebrow, taking the boxes from him and placing them on the counter. "You were late because you were talking that Farmer girl, weren't you?"

Chowder's face turned bright red with blush as he returned his attention to the boxes of produce. "Well, I mean, yeah, her family is our produce supplier, so of course I _talked_ to her..."

"Christopher Chow! Just because you're my apprentice doesn't mean I'll excuse this slacking!" Eric wanted to mean it, but he had a soft spot for the both of them, and he couldn't wipe the smile off of his face as he scolded him. Farmer was the  
first person besides Eric that Chowder had met since he'd moved from California, and he was immediately smitten. Eric felt mostly responsible for the blossoming romance.

"You finish up here, Chowder, I need to get a confidence spell going on this pie and get it back in the oven before it gets too much hotter out, and then I need to turn this...mess" he gestured to the eggs and vegetables. "...into some kind of quiche." Eric picked the bag from Johnson's off the counter and looked through it again. "Shoot, did I forget to put cauldron cleaner on the list?"

Chowder hoisted the last box onto the counter. "I can go back after the breakfast rush."

. . .

It had hardly been an hour after the bakery opened for business before the pies and other pastries began to run out. The four, small tables inside were all occupied, as were the two on the porch of the converted home.

Eric had thought for certain that with the school year starting up (and with the high lottery jackpot being advertized over every radio station in the state) that the pastries with success spells cast over them would be the most popular, or at least the luck spells. But it was the "Just Peachy Protection Pie" he'd whipped up last minute that seemed to be moving the fastest.

Maple crusted pecan, too. He'd been right about that selling out quickly. It always sold out first.

"Chowder?" he called from behind the glass of the display case, counting out how many servings of each he had left once the rush had ended.

"Yeah, boss?"

"I'm going to need you to run back to Johnson's. I need more witchwood for another protection spell." Eric straightened, placing hands on hips. "What in the world has everybody fussing over their safety all of a sudden?"

"Oh, it's probably that Zimmermann story up north." said Chowder, pulling off his service apron and walking around the other side of the counter.

"Pardon?" Eric asked

"Have you not been listening to the radio?" Chowder said, surprised. "They've been talking about it all morning."

"I didn't know 103: The Occult ran actual news." Eric said, edging toward sarcasm. "I thought it was just cryptid sightings and palm readings."

"Well apparently some guy up in Canada had some kind of fatal demonic encounter, and none of the local mystics or witches can figure out what happened. Just witchwood, you said?"

"Oh! Grab that cauldron cleaner, too, and be quick so I can get this all squared away by lunch."

. . .

It was just before ten when Chowder returned, and Eric was cleaning off the inside tables, the hot weather and not-quite-breakfast-not-quite-lunch time having left the place empty.

"You're right, people are talking about this Zimmermann story." Eric said, tossing the dish towel he was using over his shoulder. "That family is a big deal up north. They're taking this kid's death pretty seriously."

"Yeah," Chowder said nervously, taking the bag into the kitchen and setting out its contents there.

Eric followed him in. "You alright?" He asked, concernedly. "You don't have to be scared of something like that happening here, you know." he started to wash his hands. "We practice safe, positive magic here. No curses and no demons."

"It's not that," Chowder said slowly. "It's just. Johnson said something kind of weird, and I can't shake the feeling it gave me."

"Johnson says some pretty crazy things when he's high."

"I know, but, he was different this time. I don't think it was a high. He almost seemed like he was divining something."

"You think Johnson was relaying some kind of message from the spiritual world?" Eric said, disbelieving. 

"He said, 'Eric Bittle, this is just the exposition of your story, your real story starts soon'. I remember he it because he mentioned you by name and everything! And the whole aura of the room changed! I don't know, it just gave me a weird feeling  
is all..."

The two of them, master and apprentice, sat silent in the kitchen, staring at each other and trying to determine the others' thoughts. They were only interrupted when the bell on the door chimed.

"Johnson probably just wanted to scare you. He was high, and his better judgment went out the window."

"Yeah," Chowder said, leaving the kitchen to greet their customer. "You're probably right."


	2. Change of Pace Cherry Pie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all of the support and comments on this! wow!  
> another update! my weekend worked out so i had time to finish another chapter, but they probably won't come this quickly. i also said that there would be more characters in this chapter, which is true if you count _mentions_ of other characters. next one, for sure!  
>  enjoy!

Distant clamor from downstairs woke Eric up before his alarm even had the chance. He rolled over, blinking sleep from his eyes as he looked at the small clock on his night stand.

Even for a baker, 2:00 in the morning was an _ungodly_ time.

Eric yawned as he swung his feet over the side of the bed, slipping on his shoes and a shirt. Going back to bed would've promised an hour's more sleep at best -- so why not start the day early? It was on his way to the bathroom down the hall that he heard the noises downstairs again, and the reality of the situation hit him like a punch to the stomach: It was the middle of the night, and there were mysterious noises coming from the kitchen downstairs.

Swallowing his fear, Eric crept down the stairs, trying (and failing) to remember any hexes Moomaw had taught him and his cousins while they learned their craft. 

The sounds became clearer as he got closer to the kitchen: there was a kettle on the stove that hummed as its contents began to boil, the nervous scooting of a stool against the linoleum, and small, familiar gasps of surprise.

Eric let his shoulders relax as he walked into the kitchen. "Getting an early start, are we, Chowder?"

"Oh! Hi! Good morning! I -- uh," Chowder fumbled over the object in his hands, trying to maneuver it out of Eric's line of vision. "Yeah, early start! Sorry if I woke you up..."

Eric looked around the counter, taking stock of the spread before his apprentice: a dusty book, boiling water, loose tea, a stack of dirty mugs and tea cups...

He picked up the canister of tea and examined it closely. "This doesn't look much like the sweet tea we use. You aren't trying to sneak a new recipe into my bakery without telling me, are you?"

Chowder looked down at his feet. "Well," he began, "I went to bed feeling weird about what Johnson said-- and I _know_ you think it's nothing, but you also tell me to trust my instincts, right? If something feels wrong about my magic, then something probably _is_ wrong?" 

Eric opened his mouth to protest, only to find he couldn't. Chowder was right.

"I don't know a ton about divination, but my grandma used to read my tea leaves for me, and I think I'm getting somewhere with it!"

"So what'd you find?"

Chowder shifted in his seat, handing the cup to Eric. "Tell me what _you_ see, first."

Eric stared at it, trying different angles and squinting at it inquisitively before returning his gaze to Chowder, slightly confused.

"I'm in no way an expert in this, but I see a few clumps of squiggles on the sides of the cup." He handed the cup back to Chowder. "Again, my training is more in spells and potions. Moomaw said I had a better chance of flying than predicting the future."

"Ha, well, from what I can tell, this right here" Chowder pointed to the collection of tea leaves by the handle. "That's the wheel, and that means..." He flipped open the book (that accounts for the thuds Eric heard earlier...) and looked through the  
heavy, yellowed pages for one of his bookmarks. "...it means that there's going to be something you can't control happening soon, and this squiggly line is the symbol for a journey!"

Eric squinted at it. "Should I be worried that they're not straight? I mean, is there another meaning besides the obvious?"

Chowder laughed, genuinely at first, but it turned into a nervous space filler as he glanced down at the book. "Wavy lines mean that your destination is unknown or unforeseeable."

Eric let out a sigh. "OK, so the tea leaves say that we're about to head out on a journey, and it's going to be life changing. Do you feel any better about what Johnson said?"

"Are you kidding?! Of course not--"

There was a crash on the porch followed by incessant chattering, ripping both boys' attention away from their fortune.

" _Seven Hells_ " Eric shouted, running to the window to check for intruders.

"Shit, the gnomes are back." Chowder whined.

"What do you mean they're _back_?!" Eric said as he grabbed a broom and opened the door.

"Well, they were here when I woke up, and I didn't want them to wake you up since they were really noisy, so I threw some of our rotten fruit out for them, and they went away!"

Eric froze in the door frame. "So not only did you _feed_ them, you _insulted_ them by feeding them _rotten fruit_?"

"How was I supposed to know what to do? I didn't even know there were gnomes in the area!"

"They're earth elementals, they're probably drawn to you because you share an elemental aura." Shutting the screen door behind himself, Eric marched onto the front porch, armed with a broom for a weapon and a dustpan for a shield. "Shoo! Go on, get out of here! Don't let me find you eating my lavender plants again, y'all here me?!"

"Sorry!" Chowder called from his place at the counter.

Satisfied that the gnomes were long gone, Eric opened the screen door again. "It's fine. You can't help it that your elementals are trying to find you-- " His foot had landed on something other than the welcome mat, and he paused to examine it. 

"What in the world?"

"What is it?"

Eric bent over and picked it up. "It's a letter, but I don't know which mailman is crazy enough to deliver mail in the middle of the night." He flipped it over. "Whoa, heavy magic on this."

Chowder raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean, 'heavy magic'?"

"I mean there must be three layers of wards over this envelope so no one can read it if they can't undo them."

"But you can do that, right?"

"It might take a little longer, but I'm almost positive I can. They're not overly complicated, there're just a lot of them."

. . .

A cup of coffee and several pies in the oven later, Eric had the envelope opened safely. 

"Chowder?" Eric called. "Stop what you're doing, I need you to look up the Samwell Magickal Society for me."

Chowder emerged from the kitchen with two coffee pots in his hands. "The what?"

"This letter is from the Samwell Magickal Society. They want my help on some kind of investigation they were hired for, and I want to see if they're legitimate."

Several seconds passed, and Eric stared at the letter -- willing it to reveal more to him. The wards had been tight -- far superior to anything an amateur could muster. Still, not knowing about the credibility of other witches and magical people made him anxious.

"The Samwell Magickal Society: Founded by Larissa Duan and B. Knight. Uh, it looks like they create sigils and glyphs on commission up in Massachusetts."

Eric's head shot around towards Chowder. "Massachuesetts?"

Chowder walked over and read over Eric's shoulder. "Yeah, they say here that they heard a lot of great stuff about both your pies and the quality of your spells. Guess you're pretty great, huh?"

"Yeah," Eric said absently before the sound of the kitchen timer pulled him to the present. As he rose to pull pies from the oven, Chowder took his place and poured over the letter.

"Hey! You didn't mention that they were offering to pay you!"

"Well, of course!" Eric said from the kitchen. "There are so few powerful witches in the states, and we can't go around giving spells and advice away for free. You'll learn this once you develop your craft, Chowder. Witchcraft is a well-paying gig."

"This is probably the life changing journey, though! Think of meeting other witches!"

"That's another thing you'll learn, Chowder." Eric said as he returned to the front counter. "A lot of people claim to be magical, but few of those people have powerful abilities and use them for good."

"I guess, but the money could be pretty life changing! Think of all the things we could do here with this kind of money." He showed the letter to Eric again, holding his finger to the offered price. "We could get a new air conditioner!"

"Shush up," Eric said, hovering a finger over Chowder's lips, rendering him mute. "I'll think about it. Until then, you just do your job like you're supposed to. Understand me?"

Chowder nodded vigorously. 

" _Dice_!" Eric said, waving a hand in his apprentice's direction as he made his way back to the kitchen, the sound of Chowder's reclaimed voice trailing him as he went. 

. . .

It was long after the closing, and Eric was still in the kitchen.

"It's after 5." Chowder said, gesturing to the ingredients on the counter in from of Eric. "What's the occasion?"

Eric glanced up at him briefly before taking the mixing bowl of filling and pouring it into the prepared crust. He wiped the residual, rich maroon left on his fingers against his apron and began laying the first layers of the lattice top.

"I needed to think about what to do with this offer from Massachusetts." He folded the horizontal strips of dough across themselves, introducing the first vertical piece. "I figured 'Change of Pace Cherry' would help with that."

A smile spread across Chowder's face. "Are you saying we're going to go?"

Eric paused his work and smiled back up at Chowder. "I'm saying I found the last of my cherries in the freezer, and they're still sweet even though they're out of season. I take that as a sign that this change is going to be a good one. We're going."


	3. Lousy Lemony Libations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all of the love and support y'all have given this story!

Stepping onto the slick, wet concrete of the taxi loading curb, Chowder pulled his coat tighter around himself.

"C'mon, Eric. It's like, two degrees out! Can we _please_ wait inside at baggage claim?"

Eric shot an amused look in his direction. "It's in the low fifties, Chowder. I told you to bring more than a sweatshirt." He pulled his luggage to his side and peered out across the span of buses and cabs. "Miss Duan told us she would pick us up  
here, so this is where we stay."

Chowder groaned and stretched the fabric of his hood across his face. "This is the warmest jacket I own! California never gets this cold..."

The rest of his complaints were drowned out by the honking and revving of engines. Fifteen minutes had passed before Eric looked up at Chowder again.

"You stay here, alright? I'm going to go back inside and call Miss Duan and see if she's on her way."

"Get me a hot chocolate!" Chowder called after him before the sliding doors cut him off.

With numb fingers, Eric pulled his phone from his pocket: No new messages. He dialed quickly, his phone perched on his shoulder and his ancient address book spread in the other.

One ring. 

Two rings.

Three ri--

" _Hello_?" came the muffled reply.

"Hi! This is Eric Bittle! I was just calling to see if you were still coming to pick up me and my apprentice, or if you're on your way."

" _Is your apprentice a tall guy in a teal hockey sweatshirt_?" 

"Yes! Chowder! Is he with you?" Eric spun around to look through the glass door of the airport. He spotted Chowder above the crowd. There was a sudden motion just behind his frame.

" _I'm the short one with the umbrella waving at you_."

Eric rushed back onto the sidewalk. "Hi, are you Miss Larissa Duan?" he asked of the girl in front of Chowder, offering a handshake.

She returned the gesture. "Yes -- and eugh. Only my mom would call me something that formal."

"Oh!" Eric said, pulling his hand back and blushing with embarrassment. "What would you rather I call you?"

"Lardo's fine. Tall guy." She turned to Chowder. "Trade me your bag for the umbrella." She hoisted his duffle onto her shoulder and motioned for them both to follow her. "Alright, let's go. I'm pretty sure my guy is parked illegally.

Eric and Chowder exchanged glances as they stepped out into the parking lot into the pouring rain. They went through several levels of the parking structure before stopping in front of what looked like a college shuttle.

"Yo, Shits!" Lardo called to the front of the van, banging against one of the side doors. "Unlock!"

A series of clicks echoed through the van along with a heavy shuffle. "You got it!" came the drawn out reply. The trunk hatch raised, and from it burst the second half of the Samwell duo. "Shitty Knight," he said, flashing a grin at Eric and Chowder. "Nice to meet you."

Eric stood frozen to his spot, eyes wide. He hesitated to speak, glancing between Lardo, Chowder, and the man squatting in the back of the van.

"This is the part where you might add to the conversation with maybe a, 'Nice to meet you, too" or 'Hey Shitty, how's it going?'" Shitty said, his tone teetering on sarcastic.

Chowder was the first to speak. "Hi! Is your name actually 'Shitty'?"

"No." He said, straightly, although he offered no other alternative. He turned his focus to Eric, who was still staring at him concernedly. 

"Hey Quiet Guy, are you the witch?"

It snapped Eric from his thoughts. "Oh, yeah!" He rearranged his bag on his shoulder, and offered his hand to shake. "I'm Eric Bittle."

Shitty shook his hand, his head tilting to the side and smirking in some kind of concentration. 

"I don't think so." He said after a pause.

"I beg your pardon?" Eric asked somewhat incredulously. 

"Eric...Bittle...Bitt-le...Bit...Bitty!" Shitty began shaking Eric's hand more vigorously. "Good to meet you, Bitty!"

Eric threw his eyes to Lardo, who stood coolly against the side of the van, illuminated by the soft glow of the taillights. "He gives everyone nicknames. Just go with it." She stood straight and walked around the side of the van to the passenger's seat. "C'mon, boys, we're on a schedule."

"Right!" Shitty said. He reached forward and grabbed the bags from Eric and Chowder, who then made their way to the side doors. Shitty pulled the hatch down behind him and climbed over the bench seats before situating himself behind the wheel.

They all made small talk as they drove away from Boston. It wasn't until Shitty turned down a run-down side road off of the highway that Eric realized they were also driving away from civilization.

"Um," he said from the first row of the back seats. "aren't we going to Samwell? Is this a shortcut?"

Lardo let out a quick laugh. "Shitty and I met at Samwell College -- that's where the name comes from. We're actually closer to Norwood than anywhere."

It was another twenty minutes before they turned down yet another side road. Eric had resigned himself to enjoying the view of New England woods before Shitty's arm wrapped around the back of the seat, groping for the bag at Eric's feet.

"Give me a hand with this, yeah, Bitty?" Eric scrambled to pull his feet up and pass Shitty the bag. "Can't believe I forgot about the juice..."

"The _juice_?" Eric said, more scared than anything.

Lardo turned around fully to face him. "We've got a lot of protective wards around the place, because we've got a lot of stuff that we want to keep a lock on." She took the thermos that Shitty handed to her. She unscrewed the lid and handed it to Eric. "So this is a potion to let you through the front door."

"One of our guys calls it 'anemone juice' because it's like how anemones only let certain fish through?"

"Or like the food in Fairyland!" Chowder said excitedly.

Shitty made eye contact with him through the rear-view mirror. "I mean, I guess. This guy is a doctor with a biology background. He says anemone, you say fairies."

Eric looked down into the thermos. The liquid inside was dark and runny, with a strong lemony scent. It frothed and bubbled as it entered his mouth, and he had to suppress his gag reflex to keep it down.

"So which of you is the potion maker?" he asked, trying to hold back his shudder as he passed the thermos to Chowder.

"That would be Shitty, here." Lardo said. "It's a tag team operation. I set up the wards and he makes the stuff that takes them down."

Eric leaned forward and nudged Shitty's shoulder. "I don't mean to step on any toes, but as a kitchen witch, and--" he was cut off by Chowder's coughs of distaste. "--as a professional chef, can I suggest you add some cherry juice? Or add the lemon right before serving it so it doesn't separate? Just to make it more, how do I say this, palatable?" 

Shitty leaned down and matched his tone. "Equal parts tequila works, too." He added a wink before returning his attention to the road and making a sharp turn onto a small dirt road canopied by trees.

"Here we are." Lardo alerted them as they turned the corner. 

Tucked under two oak trees was a large cottage. It was two stories and stretched back far into the woods. Ivy grew up the red brick of the chimney, and moss covered the flat roof of the porch. There were indents there where someone made a habit of sitting.

Shitty pulled the van around the front of the house. The driveway was the result of a small pond in front of the house, which caused a natural roundabout. Gnomes and small undine gathered around the edge of the water, though they ran off as they heard the engine. Lardo made a comment under her breath about leaving offerings out for them.

The car turned off and Shitty looked from the boys in the backseat to the building. 

"Welcome to The Haus."

The smell of wet earth was almost overwhelming as they stepped down out of the van, even though the earlier downpour had become only a light drizzle. 

"It's beautiful." Eric said breathlessly as the four of them made their way up the steps. He stopped to admire the beautiful hand-painted glyphs on the posts of the handrails. 

Inside was a cozy, spectacular mess. Glimmering hardwood floors were covered in papers. The deep crimson of the walls were plastered with various posters and preliminary sketches of what would be masterfully crafted sigils. Even the furniture was covered with piles of laundry (except for a sequestered green armchair...)

Lardo huffed. "I told the guys to clean up before you got here, sorry. " They continued down the hall to a small guest room. "Anyway, this is your guys' home for the next week." she smiled from the door frame as Shitty dropped their luggage on the beds. "Is there anything else you need?"

Eric smiled sweetly at her. "Is there a chance I could use your kitchen?"


	4. New Friend Nutella Fudge Brownies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well two months was certainly longer than I wanted to go between chapters, but since I have some time off, hopefully I can have a couple chapters done so this kind of hiatus doesn't happen again,,,,

The kitchen wasn't nearly as bad as the rest of the Haus was. It wasn't cluttered -- if anything, if was lacking in any _real_ food. It was as if potions and instant mac'n'cheese were the only things made there.

It had only taken half an hour to sort out what was strictly magical and what was edible. He hadn't been able to find much to cook with -- but flour, sugar, eggs, and almost unthinkable amount of Nutella had been enough. 

"What in all of the heavens and hells is that beautiful smell?" came Shitty's voice from the doorway.

Eric looked up from the book he'd found while he waited for his creation to bake. "Brownies."

"Whoohoo, anything extra fun in these bad boys?" Shitty said as he peeked into the oven.

"I could barely find enough to actually make them, so unless you count the magic from the spell I cast over them, there's nothing in there."

Shitty's face fell by the smallest amount. Still, he grabbed the oven mitts on the counter and pull the pan out of the oven. "Let's cut these up and bring them out. That way you can make a good impression on everybody: Bitty the Brownie Guy."

"They're not set yet--" Eric protested, but Shitty already had a knife in them and was squaring them off and putting them onto a plate. They behaved poorly, their insides pouring from the sides and sagging lazily against the ceramic. 

"C'mon, Bitty." Shitty called as he began walking into the living room.

Eric sighed and hopped off the barstool he'd been occupying. He followed Shitty out of the kitchen, pausing when he came into the living room. Before him sat -- well, not so much sat as crowded around the plate of barely-brownies -- Lardo, 

Shitty, Chowder, and four boys he hadn't met. All eyes were trained on Eric.

"Bitty!" Lardo said, gesturing for him to sit. "These are the guys. Guys, this is Eric Bittle."

It was as if everything else in the room beside Eric had melted away. Nervously, he smiled and waved, pulling the ottoman to him so he could sit.

Shitty, around a large mouthful of brownie, started: "Alright, so here's our cast of misfits," he pointed to the hulking pair on the couch. "These two are Ransom and Holster, and over here," his arm moved to armchair across from Eric. "that's Dex, and the cool guy off to our side is Nursey."

Nursey looked up from his phone and gave a two fingered salutation in Eric's direction before returning to his screen.

Again, Eric waved nervously. "Hi..." he surveyed the group. "So, y'all are witches too?"

Holster laughed deeply. "Not even close. Shitty said 'misfits', didn't he?"

Ransom leaned forward. "You don't have to be polite about it, it's pretty obvious some of us aren't passing as human as well as others." He shifted his gaze between Eric and the incredible amount of hair on Holster.

Eric quirked an eyebrow, and Lardo sighed from where she was perched on the side of the couch. "We hadn't mentioned it yet, Justin, but since it's out, our team is made up of some pretty gnarly creatures." Her eyes passed over Chowder (his   
jaw had broken through the floor and was resting somewhere in the basement) and met Eric's. "I assume that's going to be alright?"

"Of course!" he said quickly, trying not to stare too long at the patch of scaly skin coming out from the arm of Dex's sweatshirt. "Would y'all mind going around and telling me a bit about what you are?"

"Sure, I'll go first." Holster volunteered. "I'm Holster, and I'm a werewolf."

Eric nodded. "So, around the full moon, do you mind me asking how you handle that?"

"Holster here isn't exactly the vicious werewolf stereotype." Shitty interjected. "He's less werewolf and more of giant Labrador that happens to be human most of the time. I mean, we had a rough couple cycles when he first came to us, but I guess we've house trained him really well." He lounged back against his armchair, pleased with the joke.

Holster leaned in to speak, attempting to shut Shitty out of the conversation."Samwell's been able to help keep me in control when the transformation occurs. I don't know what I'd do without Dr. Oluransi, here." He pulled back to clap Ransom on the back.

"I guess that means I'm up next?" Ransom asked, smiling at the sudden contact. "I'm Dr. Justin Oluransi. You can call me Ransom. I'm a selkie."

"Really!" Eric exclaimed. "I thought selkies only lived in the U.K.?"

"We also shouldn't be allowed to get medical degrees, but Canada's was pretty lenient about the whole thing."

Chowder nudged him. "Wait, if you're a selkie, how long have you been here? Don't you have to go back to the sea pretty often?"

Ransom sighed and set his focus at the nearly-empty plate of brownies. "Someone stole my seal skin. I came to study with Lardo about a year back, and it disappeared. She and Shits were nice enough to let me stay until I find it." 

The room fell quiet with a brief moment of sympathetic silence. Eric smiled at Ransom before turning his attention to the next member of the team.

"And you're...Dex? Was it?" Eric asked.

"Yeah." he replied, pulling his sweatshirt tighter around himself.

"Are you a witch, or are you magical in other ways?"

Dex let out a sigh. "I'm closest to a banshee."

Chowder tried to stifle his laughter, but the room turned to face him anyway.

"Seriously?" he offered as an explanation. "Aren't banshees supposed to be like, _all girls_?"

" _Hey, hey, hey, hey_!" Shitty said dangerously. "I will not tolerate that kind of gender-normative- _bullshit_ in this house or on this team." Realizing he'd been standing, he rearranged himself on his chair. "Anyway, it's more of a calico situation..."

Dex rolled his eyes and took over for Shitty. "Most banshees _are_ women, but every so often they can be guys."

Chowder nodded his head, embarrassed.

"I guess that brings us to me, then." Nursey stepped closer to the center of the room and leaned heavily on the couch next to Dex. "I'm Derek Nurse, and I'm a witch, too. I've got a background in Santeria, but mostly I've been helping Lardo and Shitty with wording the spells. I make it into poetry."

Eric smiled at the group. "Alright, so we've got Nursey the witch, Dex the banshee, Holster the werewolf, and Ransom the Selkie."

They all nodded the confirmation, but Holster was quick to make eye contact with Shitty from across the coffee table. "Did these guys get nicknamed yet?"

"They are now and forever, _officially_ , Bitty and Chowder."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from here on out, i'm going to start referring to eric as bitty, because first names are way too formal for this story or this group of rag-tag cryptids.


	5. Sympathy Scones (part i)

Bitty woke up the next morning to the sound of rain and the shrillest screaming match he'd ever heard. He rolled over groggily, and stared at the ceiling -- an oatmeal colored, water-stained reminder that he wasn't at home anymore -- before pulling the layers of quilts off of himself as the shrieks subsided. 

He walked down the hallway and through the living room. Lardo was lounging in one of the arm chairs by the window, her computer balanced delicately on her knees and a cup of coffee in her hands. Chowder was also in the living room, curled in on himself and two blankets by the fireplace. 

"Good morning." Bitty said casually as he leaned against the wall by Chowder. He regarded his apprentice. "It's seven in the morning, I thought you'd still be asleep."

Lardo laughed softly. "I wake up and find him spooning the fireplace screen. He's got sweatpants and his winter coat on, and he asks me if we have a spare hat, so his ears won't be cold."

Chowder shifted in his cocoon and mumbled something between "whatever" and "it's not my fault it's freezing out". It was then that the shrieking started up again.

Lardo huffed and rolled her eyes. "They're at it again. Bitty, did they wake you up?"

"I'm sorry, _'they'_?" Bitty demanded.

Shitty stumbled through the kitchen doorway. "Sorry about them. Should have told you about this last night." He handed Bitty a cup of coffee. "G'morning, by the way."

"The shrieking is normal?" Bitty asked again, his tone rising from confusion to concern.

"Nursey and Dex, they don't really get along. At all." Lardo explained.

Shitty followed up: "Yeah, and it usually ends in a shouting match, and a shouting match with a banshee is essentially a lose-lose situation." 

"What was it this time?" Lardo asked as Shitty crossed the room to sit on the arm of her chair.

"I think Nursey ate the last of the Pop-tarts."

"Shit. That means we have to go shopping before we leave. I don't think there's anything else."

"I could make breakfast!" Bitty said. All eyes shot to him. "I mean, if you're going to the store anyway, why don't I go with you and get some ingredients for the rest of the week?"

A smile broke out over Shitty's face and he teasingly wagged a finger at Bitty. "I keep forgetting you're in the restaurant game!" He nudged Lardo. "I knew there was a reason I liked this guy!"

"I'll get dressed and we can head out. What else did you say we were doing today?" Bitty asked.

Lardo bent to put her laptop onto the coffee table and took a sip of her coffee. "I'll explain once everyone is up, but basically, we're taking a trip to Albany."

. . .

Two hours later the Samwell Magickal Society were all seated around the kitchen table. Bitty had gone back to his catering roots, preparing not only breakfast, but a variety of baked goods for later as well.

The team sat, stunned, at the spread before them.

"Is that a quiche?" Ransom asked, dumbstruck.

"Well, it's not my best one, because I had to use premade crust, but, yeah. It's ham and smoked gouda with sautéed shallots."

They passed it around, along with the muffins, fruit, and orange juice.

"Alright," Lardo said as everyone tucked into their meal. "We're heading into New York today to meet with the Zimmermann family and our witness to the event."

The clinking of silverware quieted down in as a small act of respect for the dead. 

Lardo cleared her throat. "Bitty, Chowder, Shits, and I are all going. Ransom, I want you with us, too. The rest of you are staying her and minding the business, alright?"

"If Bitty's bringing his assistant," Ransom said "I want to bring Holster."

Shitty swallowed a large mouthful of food. "I'm not leaving those two" he gestured to Nursey and Dex, "alone, especially if they're the face of Samwell Magick for the weekend. I want my house and my business _in-fucking-tact_ when we get home."

Holster gave Ransom a small, assuring smile from across the table. "C'mon, you're smart enough without me." 

"I want to be on the road by eleven, so everyone who's going -- finish and pack." Lardo said as she stood up from the table. 

. . .

The drive into New York was long, and the smell of vanilla from the various tins and platters of baked goods in the trunk permeated through the entire van.

The entire time, Bitty felt a pull at the bottom of his stomach. Something didn't feel right. It was anxiety mixed with the gnawing, magickal sense that something was going to go wrong. His veins tingled along his arm.

The forested interstate gave way to the suburbs until finally the van pulled into a small valet driveway in front of a chic, downtown hotel. Bitty collected a plate of scones from the back and followed the group into the building. They bypassed the front desk, piling themselves into the nearest elevator.

The Zimmermanns were staying at the far end of the top floor, and a bodyguard was positioned outside of their luxury suite.

"Who did you say these people were again?" Bitty asked as they approached.

Chowder gasped from the back of the group. "Are you asking who Bad Bob Zimmermann is? Seriously? He's only like, a legendary hockey star!" he let out a small huff. "I know I've mentioned him to you before..."

"His wife, Alicia, is a model. She was in a couple movies in the 80s and 90s." Ransom said. "Their kid Jack, our victim, was on his way to eternal hockey glory before, well, y'know."

Bitty nodded. "I guess I'm just a little in the dark here, is all."

"That's good. That's how I want it." Lardo said. "I hired you for your unbiased opinion on what you think happened." She turned to look at him. "I find gut reactions are usually correct about these sorts of things."

They came to the door.

"Move along, folks." the guard said severely. "The couple has requested absolute privacy."

"They're expecting us." Shitty replied, his tone unusually business-like. "We're Samwell."

The guard pressed a button on his earpiece. "Samwell for you, ma'am." 

There was movement from inside the room, and then the double doors opened grandly. At their center stood Mrs. Zimmermann. She was gaunt with grief, and her white, billowy outfit made her look like a ghost. Still, she seemed effortlessly beautiful.

"Hello," She greeted. Her voice was tired, however much she tried to sound welcoming. "Come in, please." 

They team filed into the suite. It was open and spacious, with natural light pouring in through the gossamer curtains. The windows were angled and overlooked the city. All of the furniture was the same peachy cream color, so Bob Zimmerman's dark suit stood out starkly.

"Hello." He said solemnly.

"Mr. Zimmermann." Lardo greeted, extending her hand out to him.

"Bob is fine."

Alicia made her way across the room to stand by them. They both smiled the same, strained smile.

"I just sent down for the tea service, Bobby." She said. She gestured to the chairs. "Why don't we sit? Luke can handle the room service."

Bitty offered her the platter. "I made these for y'all. They're butter pecan scones." He didn't mention that the sign in his bakery referred to them as 'sympathy scones' or that they were infused with a calming spell crafted specifically for grieving families at funerals. 

Alicia held the platter in front of herself, staring down at the scones. "How incredibly thoughtful!" She said graciously after a moment of silence to take in the warm scent. "They'll go wonderfully with the rooibos."

They joined the rest of the group in the chairs circled around the coffee table.

The tea arrived shortly after, and Alicia had been right spot on about the nuttiness of the tea complementing the buttery sweetness of the pastries. 

"If you don't mind," Lardo said "I'd like to get started. We're on a bit of a schedule, and I don't want to take up any more of your time than needed."

The couple nodded. "What do you want to know?" Bob asked.

"We want your side of the story." Shitty said. "Start anywhere with whatever you know."

Bob let out a shaky sigh, his eyes scanning the ceiling. "Well," he started slowly. "Jack was in the drafting process for the NHL. Before that, he'd spent a couple years coaching kids and training."

Alicia picked up the story. "The year he graduated from high school, he developed a problem with substance abuse." she said this part robotically, as if she'd rehearsed the line in order to feed it to the press perfectly, but stopped to collect herself. "That summer, we got call one night. From the hospital. They told us he was there and he was in critical condition."

Lardo's brows furrowed. "Is that when he starting messing around with the occult?"

"I don't know." Alicia said. She took a sip of her tea. "I had never noticed it before."

"It's not uncommon for a near death experience to awaken a curiosity about magick. You get close to the other side and realize there is another side. Most people spend the rest of their lives trying to find it again." Ransom said. "You can hardly blame them."

"What did you notice after?" Lardo asked.

"Not much, really." Alicia said, letting out a sigh. "He was spending a lot of time with a friend of his from hockey, Kent Parson."

Chowder made a small noise of excitement, and Lardo elbowed his side.

Bitty's hands began to feel cold, and a shiver ran up his spine down to his fingertips. It was similar to how he felt in the van, but the apprehensiveness had been replaced with something more sinister.

Bob continued "Kent" -- and there was that feeling again, Bitty thought, like biting down on tin foil -- "never hid the fact that he was interested in all of this...magicky...stuff. When they were kids, Jack had mentioned that they messed around with a oujia board once or twice, but come on, who hasn't?"

"Do you think that's what started all of this?" Shitty asked. 

"Isn't that what it always is? Anyway, that's all we've got to go on."

The group sat in silence, letting the information sink in.

"Well, if there's nothing else," Alicia said, "I suppose we should let you all get to your schedule." She stood, followed by Bob, and gestured towards the suite's door.

"Thank you for meeting with us," Shitty said. "You've given us a lot to think about."

"Of course." Bob said, shaking hands with them as they filed out. He held Bitty's grip longer, keeping him in place as the rest of them made their way to the door.

"I don't know much -- anything, really -- about magick. But I know about intuition." His eyes bore holes into Bitty. "I saw how you reacted to Kent's name. Do you think he's responsible?"

Bitty looked nervously up at him. Bob Zimmermann was intimidating, not only because of his size, but because of his intensity. His grief had consumed him.

"I can't answer for certain, sir." Bitty said carefully. "But I promise you, I'll do all I can to find out what happened to your son."

Bob blinked and squeezed Bitty's hand before releasing it. "Thank you. That's all I ask."

Bitty nodded. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

He joined the rest of the team at the elevator. No one spoke, even as they piled into the van. It was as if the sorrow the Zimmermanns were feeling had transferred over to them. As they rode toward the Parson home, Bitty couldn't help but feel that they were driving toward the end of the world.

. . .

"It's bullshit we can't go with them." Dex said, tinkering with a pile of broken lanterns at the main desk. "Seriously. We could help."

"No," Nursey responded from a stool in the corner of the room. "What's bullshit is the explanation you and Shitty gave Bitty and Chowder about being a banshee? 'Not all banshees are girls! I'm like a cat--"

Nursey was cut off by the screwdriver Dex threw at him.

"What the fuck?!"

"Hey!" Holster bellowed as he came in from the other room. "I have an important call with a client on in the office. Are you guys seriously not able to be in the same room as each other now?"

"sorry..." the both grumbled, watching carefully for the door to close behind Holster as he left.

Dex picked up the screwdriver and returned to the lantern. "Honestly? You wouldn't even know if you hadn't read my mind like some kind of asshole."

"I can't help it. You had that shit in plain sight for any psychic to find." He made eye contact with Dex. "For real though, I'm not going to tell anyone you're trans. Your secret is safe with me."

"Thanks." Dex said. "Maybe you're not as big of an asshole after all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> school is over and there was a comic update? sounds like a good time for a new chapter!  
> i am very sorry for the amount of time it takes between chapter postings. i always think i'll have more time to write but animation homework wins every time...  
> also! a big thank you to unchartedsea for suggesting that dex being transgender! it is 1000x better than what I had written.


	6. Sympathy Scones (part ii)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things are beginning to take shape! the exposition was long, but i think the pay off is worth it!  
> there are some triggers mentioned in this chapter, so if any of you are uncomfortable with the following subjects ( **suicide, drug use, non graphic blood/gore** ), this might be a chapter that you skip  
> otherwise, please enjoy!

Kent rolled over in bed and immediately regretted it. Everything hurt -- his back, his head, even the backs of his eyes begged him to go back to sleep. It was already 2:00 in the afternoon. He'd spent most of the morning asleep, shifting restlessly back and forth.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, a reminder message popping up. He couldn't go back to bed. Some group that the Zimmermanns hired were coming to talk to him at 5:00. He needed to shower and clean up before then. Nothing could be suspicious.

He swung his legs off the side of his bed and groaned, an action mirrored by Kit. He scratched her behind the ears affectionately. "Can't stay here all day with you, sorry, missus." She meowed at him again, displeased, before curling back in on herself.

She was such an asshole sometimes. 

Kent made his way to the bathroom, turning the shower on as high and hot as it could get before stripping off his sweatpants. He looked at the mirror, watching how the condensation began to blur the image. When the mirror had fogged up completely, he stepped into the shower, hissing at the water that fell like tiny knives against his side. Normally he would stand there for as long as he wanted, going over the series of events that had led him to this point, but today was different. 

There were guests coming in three hours.

He had three hours to come up with a story.

. . .

_"Hey Zimms, do a bump with me."_

_Music blared throughout the house. Jack walked towards the bedroom Kent had hidden away in. The life of the party was in the living room, down the hall, but slowly couples had broken away to be alone. Jack checked to make sure no one saw him duck into the room._

_"Kenny,"_

_"C'mon, man, close the door."_

_Jack did as he was told and sat down next to Kent on the bed._

_"Here, I have one ready for you." Kent said, eagerly. He extended his hand to Jack. His thumb was rigidly horizontal, and there was a small amount of white powder piled near the socket._

_Jack pushed Kent's hand away. "I don't do that anymore."_

_"It's K, Zimms, not blow."_

_"I almost died, Kent. I'm not risking that again."_

_Kent rolled his eyes and snorted the pile off his hand, licking the excess. "Yeah, but what if, like..." he trailed off, waving his hand in a slow arch in front of Jack's face. "What if you didn't have to ever worry about that again?"_

_Jack stood up, collecting his drink off the nightstand. "You're already high, aren't you?"_

_"Maybe." Kent said, smiling. "But that doesn't mean I don't also have a way for you not worry about dying."_

_He watched Jack begin to leave and reached out to him. "C'mon, Jack, stay with me." he whined._

_Jack turned around and sighed, moving towards Kent's waiting arms, which collected him around the waist._

_"Indulge me" Kent said, burrowing his face into Jack's chest."One last time."_

_"I already told you, I'm sober and nothing you do is going to make me change my mind."_

_"Yeah, I heard you. Loud and clear." Kent said, standing up and moving his hands so he could hang loosely from Jack's neck. "I meant, like, you know. Old, old times. Before the drugs." He pressed a kiss beneath Jack's ear, pushing himself firmly against him._

_Jack caught Kent around the waist, steadying him as he swayed slightly. "Kent,"_

_Kent brought a finger up to Jack's lips. "Shhh." he whispered, replacing his finger with his lips. He pulled away from their kiss and rested his head on Jack's shoulder. "I want to spend the rest of my life. Just like this."_

_"We can't."_

_"I already told you that I found a way to. Trust me, Zimms."_

. . .

Kent knew he would have to clean this room, but he thought he'd have more time to figure out what to do with the items inside -- with the last pieces of Jack he had left, exactly where they had been. 

He'd spent the day avoiding the task, but he was out of ways to procrastinate and he had thirty minutes before his guests arrived. What wasn't dealt with now would potentially be lost forever.

Piece by piece, he shoved every blood stained item into a garbage bag, tossing them into the closet along with the rest of his mementos so all that remained in the room was an altar.

Nothing suspicious at all, he thought to himself.

He heard Kit's collar jingle as she hopped off his bed in the other room. Her low hiss was drowned out by the loud sound of a van pulling into the drive way.

Instinctively, he pushed his hair back, straightened his shirt, and went downstairs to greet his guests. 

. . .

Bitty's stomach had become increasingly more upset the closer they drove to Kent Parson's home. When they arrived, the apprehension and anxiety had reached a level that had him ready to throw up. He moved slowly out of the van, passing the plate of scones to Ransom.

"Hey, Bits, are you doing alright?" he asked. "You look a little...off."

"I'm fine, it's just," Bitty took a deep breath and nearly choked. "Do you smell that too?"

Ransom look slowly from side to side. "Smell what, exactly?" he asked cautiously. "The almond extract?"

Bitty began to fan himself with a roadmap. "It smells like sulfur."

Lardo noticed the scene and walked over to the two of them. "What's going on?"

"Bitty doesn't feel well. Do you smell sulfur?"

She sniffed the air. "I smell almonds and dirt." she said matter-of-factly. She turned her attention to Bitty. "Are you going to be OK?"

"I just..." Bitty took a deep breath in. Lardo took his hand and traced a pentagram onto his palm with her index finger. 

"I don't want to send you in if you're uncomfortable with this, Eric, alright?" she said. "But, I think your opinion here is invaluable, and your gut reaction is a sign that there might be something bad inside. Something we could fix."

Bitty nodded, breathing deeply until he could breathe normally without shaking.

"I'm ready."

Kent met them in the doorway, arms folded. "I'd take it you're Samwell?" He called out to the team.

Lardo and Shitty made their way to the front of the group to greet him.

"We are." Lardo. "And you're Kent Parson?"

Kent made an affirmative hum and shifted his weight to his other side, leaning against the door frame. 

Lardo and Shitty exchanged sidelong glances with each other, taking in how Kent surveyed the group, his eyes landing on Bitty.

"Are you going to invite us in, or would you like to conduct our business outside, Mr. Parson?" Shitty asked politely. Someone who knew him well could tell how the slight uptick at the end of his sentence indicated his annoyance.

Kent blinked, seemingly removing himself from his trance. "Of course," he said sweetly. "But I keep my things in a particular order. I'd appreciate it if they weren't disturbed."

As they filed into the house, another feeling of dread washed over Bitty. He could feel Kent's eyes on him as he passed by, but more than that, he felt a prickling sensation across his skin -- the protective ward Lardo had cast over him was being tested. He clung tighter to the platter.

Kent Parson's living room was sparsely decorated, and though it lacked the traditional, cozy atmosphere of the Haus, it was obvious that it was a magic and sacred space. A single bookshelf on one of the walls contained neatly sorted oils and tools, along with a few decorative spellbooks. On the opposite wall were a series of framed photographs all depicting the same cat.

"Do you worship Bastet?" Ransom asked, gesturing to the pictures on the wall.

"That's Kit," Kent said. "She's my familiar."

The conversation went on cordially, but Bitty was distracted by the calling he felt from the shelf. The prickling on his skin increased the closer he got to the athame. It was displayed on a small stand, sheathed, so that only the intricate details of the handle and hilt were visible.

. . .

_Kent led Jack down the upstairs hallway. The party was still in full swing beneath them, but as was normal with a Kent Parson party, the guests were either drunk or high enough to not notice the disappearance of their host._

_"So now that I have a career and a disposable income, I've finally been able to get that alter room I always dreamed about." Kent explained, pulling Jack in by the hand._

_Jack laughed. "You couldn't settle for a home office like a normal person?"_

_Kent scoffed at the fake blow to his ego."At least now the rest of my stuff matches this." He picked up the blade and admired it under the soft overhead light. "I said I want an athame and you got me the fanciest one, even though most of my  
alter was from the dollar store."_

_"It's historically accurate. I wanted to get you a traditional one."_

_"Well let's see what it can do."_

. . .

 

"Hey!"

The exclamation from Kent brought Bitty back to the conversation.

"If you wouldn't mind leaving that alone, it was a gift from a close friend, I'd prefer it if you left that alone."

"I was only looking," Bitty began, before he caught Shitty's eye, a warning there not to argue with their host. "Maybe you have a place to put these?" He changed the subject, offering up the scones.

Kent stared at Bitty, as if trying to curse him on the spot. He broke into a polite smile. "Just on the coffee table is fine, Eric."

The name caught them all off guard. They hadn't had a chance to introduce him to Kent, yet. 

"So what kind of magic do you practice again?" Ransom asked, suspicion beginning to rise in his voice.

"Oh, this and that. Mostly I try to communicate with spirits, y'know, passed love ones and such."

"Mr. Parson, would you mind showing us the place you found the body?" Lardo said abruptly. There was a pause as all eyes fell to her. "We have a long drive tonight, and I'm sure your time is valuable as well. Why not get to it?"

Kent smiled and laughed. "I like your style, Miss Duan."

. . .  
_They turned off the lights in the room and lit candles, placing them around the circle that Kent had cast. A grimoire was open between the two of them. Kent had already cleansed Jack's hands and was saying the spell to himself. He paused._

_"Hold this." Kent passed the athame to Jack. He crouched down in the space between them, sprinkling salt._

_"What are you--"_

_"I'm anointing the space. We're both cleansed. I think we're safe."_

_"For what?"_

_Kent took the blade from Jack and pressed it into his own palm, letting the blood drip onto the ground._

_"What the fuck, Parse?!"_

_"We're going to live forever, Jack."_

. . .

Kent led them all upstairs, explaining the incident as they went. Jack Zimmerman's death was a suicide. He'd come to the party that night, had a drink or two, and then disappeared. Kent had found him in a pool of blood upstairs once everyone had gone home that night.

"He left this long note about why he did it... I guess he was just really unhappy..." Kent said, trailing off as they came to the door of the room. His voice cracked and his face scrunched up, fighting to keep composure. His face slackened with  
acceptance and his icy composure returned. 

"The Zimmermanns seem to think it had something to do with a demon encounter. Any idea why that would be?" Lardo said.

"They're beside themselves with grief." Kent shot back, aggression rising. "They don't want to remember their son that way, so they're coming after our craft because witches have always been an easy target."

"Maybe they didn't believe the note." she said.

"I'm sorry, am I under arrest?" Kent asked sarcastically. "I didn't know you had that kind of authority."

"Hey, hey, hey!" Shitty said, moving himself between the two of them. "No one's in trouble. We just want to see the place this happened. We're here as an objective party."

Kent paused and then pointed to Bitty. "He goes in, and he goes in alone."

"Excuse me?" Shitty asked incredulously.

" I know a fellow witch when I see one, and quite frankly, I trust his magic and his instinct more than yours, at the moment. It's Eric or it's no one."

Lardo glanced back at him. "Are you okay with this, Bitty?"

Bitty nodded, walking slowly to the front of the group until he was at the door. Kent opened it slowly for him. They made eye contact as they passed, hard and severe.

_"Why isn't anything happening? We offered a sacrifice!"_

_"Calm down, Kent, maybe it's a fluke spell--"_

_Suddenly, Jack's breathing began to hitch._

Similar to the living room, it was clean and minimalistic. There was an alter under the window with a picture of Jack Zimmerman at the center.

_Jack fell to his knees, blood started to gather at the corners of his mouth. Kent ran to him._

The air in the room was too heavy.

_It started as a small puncture at the corner of his throat. The wound pulled across his flesh, blood spilling out._

It was suddenly too hot.

_Kent leapt back, screaming, before he felt a piercing in his own chest._

He was suffocating. He was on the ground.

_He couldn't form thoughts or words besides "The price of immortality."_

There was darkness.


End file.
